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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206818">sing me somethin' brave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet'>sosobriquet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Caretaking, Cowboys &amp; Cowgirls, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:41:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale just wants to take care of Crowley.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Can't no preacher man save my soul, MoFu Birthdays</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sing me somethin' brave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callus_Ran/gifts">Callus_Ran</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For my dear friend Ran on her birthday!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale takes all his worrying about Crowley's persistent cold, and does something useful with it. He makes lunch. He has always found solace in the simple pleasure of doing something for someone he loves, and today is no exception. Their little trailer fills with the smell of the chicken soup that’s been simmering, slow and sweet, since Crowley left that morning. He catches himself smiling like a fool and singing faintly along with a song he can barely hear through the static on the radio, and he finds himself too happy to even feel ashamed of it.</p><p><em> You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey </em> </p><p>He fishes some pickles out of the jar and lays them on a paper towel to dry a bit while he makes the sandwiches. It’s a bit of a ride to where Crowley has taken the sheep to graze, and there are few things worse than a soggy sandwich for lunch. </p><p>
  <em> You're as sweet as strawberry wine </em>
</p><p>For Crowley he slices half a bell pepper into strips for a crunchy snack, and two diminutive jalapeños into thin discs for spreading across a crisp slice of the dark rye bread Crowley prefers. This time, he does not forget to wash his hands after handling the peppers.</p><p><em> You're as warm as a glass of brandy </em> </p><p>On top of the jalapeños he layers a few slices of thick-cut ham, covered sparingly with the chipotle aoli he’d made himself the day before. On top of it all goes a slice of pepperjack, and then the slice of rye that will become the bottom when Aziraphale flips it over into the sandwich container. Before closing the lid, Aziraphale peeks under the top slice to check that the ham slices have not dripped onto the bread and made it soggy - hopefully the cheese slice between the ham and the bread bottom will protect it during the short ride.</p><p>Next, he pats the top of his set-aside pickles with the edge of the paper towel and, satisfied with the results, he spreads them across his own slice of lightly toasted rye bread. The slices of ham follow quickly, smeared lightly with durkee and topped with a slice of aged cheddar. He tops it off with another slice of rye, and flips it over into its container as well. Once more, he checks the top slice for drippings and finds none.</p><p>For his own snack, he slices some celery, catching himself humming awkwardly along to another song  trying valiantly to break through the static on the radio. Though he cannot recall the lyrics, he remembers the cadence of them just fine and hums slowly along with the words he cannot hear. </p><p>He’s slicing a large apple to share between themselves and the horses for “dessert” when the radio finally picks up a decent signal, and the volume ratchets up to screech dramatically at him.</p><p>
  <b> <em>“If you’re callin’ ‘bout my heart, it’s still yours”</em> </b>
</p><p><em> Oh dear </em>, he thinks, the words to the song flooding into his memory now. </p><p>
  <b> <em>“'I shoulda listened to it a little more”</em> </b>
</p><p>Aziraphale startles and his grip on the knife slips, nicking one of the fingers holding the apple steady. The juice from the apple burns in the small cut, and he pops his injured finger into his mouth to suck the sting away, tasting the salt and copper of his blood and the tart and sweet of the apple all at once.</p><p>Once the stinging stops, he inspects the apple slices for any drops of blood, sucking gently on his finger until the bleeding seems to have stopped. Holding his injured finger up for inspection, he can’t even see the cut, so he packs their lunches away into his saddlebags with some frozen water bottles before he takes a moment to bandage his finger for protection. He wraps his finger in the stretchy black vetrap from the horse first aid kit, then adds a loop around his wrist in hopes that it will hold up to the ride despite the clumsy one-handed wrap job. The remainder of the roll he stows in his saddlebags along with lunch so that Crowley can fix it for him if needed.</p><p>Last but not least, he clears away his mess and fills two thermoses with the chicken soup he’d started first thing that morning. There are no noodles, so it could easily be sipped from a thermos, but bits of tender chicken shredded so fine, and carrots and onions diced so small and sauteed so long they can simply be swallowed. It’s as spicy as he can stand, and he hopes it’s enough to clear Crowley’s head, and that there’s enough garlic to clear Crowley’s chest without making him turn his nose up at it.</p><p>Lifting the saddlebags and both thermoses off the small counter, Aziraphale heads out the door to where Moiselle waits patiently, already saddled and ready to go. He tucks the thermoses of soup into their own holders, strapped to the saddle on each side of the pommel, then throws the saddlebags across Moiselle’s pale and spotless hips and secures them to the cantle and skirt of the saddle.</p><p>He pulls her reins loose from the tie ring on the side of the trailer, not tied but wrapped just once to remind her to stay put, and leads her just a few steps away from the trailer before checking that her girth is still snug. He flips the reins over her head so smoothly she doesn’t so much as twitch an ear, sticks his foot into the stirrup, gathers up Moiselle’s reins along with a fistful of mane, and swings neatly up into the saddle.</p><p>Moiselle remains still through it all, waiting for a spoken command from Aziraphale, or a light touch from both legs to signal her to move. When he tells her <em> walk </em> and touches his calves to her sides, she steps out in a ground-covering but unhurried walk that will quickly eat up the mile between separating the campsite and where Crowley waits with the grazing sheep.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Aziraphale sees sheep long before he sees Crowley, the white fluff of their wool bright as a flashing neon sign against the orange adobe cliffs.</p><p>Then a horse's head appears from behind an outcropping overhung with sparse scrub, neighing loudly. Aziraphale feels Moiselle's ribs expand to give answer, and he hushes her with a light hand on the reins and a tap of his heels. The sound echoes off the cliff face, making his ears ring, and he would rather his horse not add to the noise </p><p>"Crowley?" he calls softly, worry creeping in when his friend does not quickly appear.</p><p>"Sorry, angel," a voice says at his back, and Aziraphale turns sharply in his saddle, Moiselle pivoting neatly to stay under him. </p><p>Surely the dark shadows beneath Crowley’s eyes are from his sunglasses, Aziraphale tries to reassure himself, but to no avail. The lines on his face seem deeper, more tightly drawn, and Aziraphale regrets letting him leave just hours ago. He looks tired in a way Aziraphale recognizes from when they first met, and had almost forgotten.</p><p>"Left the horse in the shade while I fetched this one down out of the rocks," Crowley explains slowly, sounding out of breath. With a weary sigh, he leans down to let a lamb squirm out of the circle of his arms.</p><p>Aziraphale's shoulders let go of a tension he hadn't realized he was carrying, and Moiselle quiets instantly beneath him. "You worried me," he says softly, feeling unbearably fond as a smile spreads across his face.</p><p><em> Good Lord, </em> he thinks, <em> what a lost cause I am.  </em></p><p>He can't find it in himself to mind, not when Crowley is striding quickly closer to lay one hand across Aziraphale's knee, and gripping the back of his saddle with the other. </p><p>"Aziraphale," Crowley says seriously, tilting his head up so Aziraphale can see his face clearly. He can see the dark circles hiding behind Crowley’s glasses now, but his expression is softer now, and not so strained.</p><p>"I told you I'd be alright.” One thumb strokes across the side of Aziraphale's knee, the other strokes the gentle swell of his hip. "I keep my promises to you, don't I?" He's trying to tease, the corners of his mouth attempting to curl into a smirk, but his voice is too small.</p><p>Reaching down, Aziraphale pushes Crowley's hat back and cups his cheek with gentle fingers. He leans off the side until he's bent double, just so he can press a kiss to Crowley's still too-warm forehead.</p><p>"Always, my dear, but you know I can't help but worry about you."</p><p>Crowley stares up at him, cheeks pink and the sharp lines of his face softening with an expression Aziraphale is beginning to know well; affection.</p><p>"I brought lunch," he offers, suddenly aware of a heat creeping up from his chest that will soon turn his face quite red.</p><p>The moment broken, Crowley grins cheekily up at Aziraphale. "I know, angel, you said you would." </p><p>Aziraphale glares down at him, pressing his lower leg against Moiselle's side so that she sidesteps neatly away from Crowley to give Aziraphale room to dismount.</p><p>Safely on solid ground, Aziraphale takes off his hat and sets it on the horn of his saddle. When Crowley leans in for a kiss, he turns his cheek up into it, smile bittersweet as Crowley makes a disappointed noise at the redirection.</p><p>“Oh, please, Crowley, you know I want to kiss you properly,” Aziraphale says, deeply unhappy himself, “but we can’t afford for both of us to be sick.”</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley wheedles, half-joking, but half-serious too, “we share that little bitty trailer, we sleep in the same bed because you won’t let me sleep outside in my hammock-”</p><p>“Of course I won’t let you!” Aziraphale says, puffing up with indignation over an argument they’ve had many times over the past week. “What kind of man lets his <em> sick </em> b-” he deflates just as suddenly as he had inflated, stammering over a selection of words that seem <em> so inadequate </em> for describing what Crowley is to him.</p><p>In the end, he gives up trying to name it, and he gestures vaguely between them with his bandaged hand. “I could never just let you sleep outside in the chill, Crowley, even if you weren’t sick,” he says, sounding a little defeated at having to rehash old arguments he’d thought they’d left far behind them. “Even if we weren’t,” Aziraphale gestures vaguely again, and Crowley catches his hand with such gentleness it makes his too-tender heart ache.</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley says softly, giving him an apologetic look. “You can call me your boyfriend, if you like.” He plucks at the edges of Aziraphale’s bandage rather than continuing to look him in the eye. “Your lover even,” he offers with a visible cringe, “if you’d rather.”</p><p>Feeling dangerously close to overflowing, Aziraphale reaches up to stroke Crowley’s cheek, his fond smile turning watery. “I never know what I want to call you, really,” he says quietly. “What you are to me feels too big for any word.”</p><p>He covers Crowley’s mouth with his hand when he opens it to protest, impulsively kissing the back of it. “Is it alright if I just call you mine?”</p><p>Crowley blinks at him, wide-eyed behind his glasses, and nods slightly.</p><p>Aziraphale removes his hand, feeling his face heat with embarrassment, and starts to turn away.</p><p>A gentle tug at the hand still held in both of Crowley’s pulls him up short. He looks first at Crowley’s lovely fingers slowly picking loose the edges of his poor bandaging job, then at Crowley's carefully blank face, and back again at Crowley slowly unwrapping his badly-done bandage.</p><p>"What happened here, angel?" Crowley asks rather than answer. It's as clear a "yes" as Aziraphale is likely to get from him, so he takes it. </p><p>"I, ah, slipped and cut myself a litte," he admits sheepishly, twisting to reach into Moiselle's saddlebags for the rest of the vetrap. "I was hoping you could fix it for me, my love?" he asks, holding up the partial roll as Crowley unwinds the last of the bandage. </p><p>Crowley holds Aziraphale's hand up to the light, manipulating his injured finger with such delicate touches of his calloused hands. </p><p>"Well, that's not so bad," he says, about more than the near-invisible slice across the pad of Aziraphale's finger.</p><p>"I know it's not much," Aziraphale begins, feeling suddenly shy, "but I-" </p><p>Crowley abruptly lowers his hand and presses a tender kiss to the back of it, silencing him. "Of course I'll wrap your hand for you, ang- Azira-" he makes that face he makes when he's tongue-tied, like he's sucked on a lemon, and Aziraphale's heart skips a beat, or three, waiting.</p><p>"Of course I'll do it, dove," Crowley tries again, hesitant, and then he can't seem to stop himself. "My dove," he says, with a little crack in his voice that grows with every word, "my love."</p><p>"I love you?" he whispers it like a question, sounding dazed. Aziraphale wraps him up in his arms, pressing his face to Crowley's narrow chest.</p><p>"You mean you didn't know?" Aziraphale laughs into Crowley's chest, and holds him tighter still. "Do I have to spell it out for you, that I love you too?" </p><p>Crowley kisses the top of Aziraphale's head. "Nah, angel, I think I got the message."</p><p><br/>
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